


Hell on Earth

by ShiDreamin



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Bad Decisions, M/M, Mild Language, Resolved Sexual Tension, Summer, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:07:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25757101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShiDreamin/pseuds/ShiDreamin
Summary: A hot day with only Hanzo and McCree in the house
Relationships: Jesse McCree/Hanzo Shimada
Comments: 2
Kudos: 59





	Hell on Earth

Hanamura is Hell in the summer.

The city sweats, pouring leftover rain water from monsoons from the rooftops over the heads of the citygoers, snapped umbrellas and flimsy newspapers in the way of wetting their hair. Businessmen mutter as they strip off their jackets, white shirts translucent around the folds of their fat, soaked in sweat from long hours. The skirts get short, and then shorter, and there is an awful shortage of AC in the open-doored stores that meandering tourists drift their ways in and out of, fanning themselves in the corners. The pale skinned ones occasionally sniff at their arms and bat attendants for deodorant—they haven’t realized yet that Japanese never cared much for that.

Hanzo Shimada suffers under the weight of a broken AC, an overburdened fan, and Hanamura summer temperatures.

Worst of all, he suffers from the constant chatter from his temporary house guest.

“I mean, it gets hot, sure, but monsoons? Whew! I’ve never seen them outside the news, and news anchors, and Twitter, do you know that one meme of the person getting soaked on one side and the other not, cause the rain cloud stops right there? Genji showed me that.”

Jesse McCree is a burden on most men, but he seems especially irritating in the supposed privacy of Hanzo’s room. After leaving the Shimada clan and denouncing his name, Hanzo had kept a limited amount of funds to his name without triggering any alarms. It ended him with a half floor condo with a single kitchen, bathroom, and a single bedroom; the master bedroom was converted to a makeshift storage shed now with space for Genji, the other was once a closet with the wall knocked back from the living room to make space.

They never quite fixed up the cracked wall on the edges, and McCree points out the fact about every time his eyes shift to the right.

Which is often.

“I don’t care for social media,” Hanzo reminds him for possibly the tenth time this morning. It was bad luck, bringing the other man over.

“Yeah, yeah, but it’s good, you know? I’m sure Genji would appreciate it. And you, uh, you should really call someone to fix your wall? I’m pretty sure I could, if you let me at it.” McCree’s eyes don’t stray from his phone, comfortably hanging upside down from Hanzo’s bunk bed. Hanzo frowns up at the shadow cast over him, scratching out notes from the table down under.

If McCree falls and Hanzo chooses not to call the ambulance, does it count as murder?

Eh. He doubts the cowboy would die from such a short fall.

“Wait a tick. You do use social media—least the Overwatch chat, don’t ya?”

“Genji texted me,” Hanzo says instead, because it’s true, but also because it’s better than admitting that he does follow McCree’s chat. That he happens to know how often the man is online at bleak hours in the morning, haunted and alone.

He doesn’t like to think about it.

“What—now that just ain’t fair! I ought to have your number too.” McCree protests, swinging his arms lazily over the bed. Hanzo imagines it would be more threatening if it weren’t so slow, and he couldn’t see the sweat trickling downward from the open sleeve of his tee shirt.

“No.” He’s not going to finish editing his choreography at this rate. The notebook goes in with a loud crinkle, the pages folding in on themselves, sticky with sweat from his hands. He grunts, shoving it in the shallow space between his other finished notebooks. McCree grunts back at him but makes no movement to leave the bed.

It’s too hot for a fight.

“What if I need help again?” The words are quickly followed by a loud clatter as the wooden staircase against the bunk bed shakes, McCree’s feet becoming visible as he takes a test step down. “I don’t really know Japanese. Only a little, tiny bit. That’s it. Honest.” Hanzo grimaces at the man, certain he is lying. Genji had taken to language better than Hanzo, but years of skipping lessons led to his English skills deteriorating faster than he could pick it up. He doubts McCree could form anything close to a friendship with Genji without first picking up some Japanese.

“Call someone else, perhaps Genji,” Hanzo offers. McCree hits the floor, ducking under the bed to corner Hanzo against his desk. He grunts, kicking out loosely and hitting McCree’s calf. “It’s too hot for this, go away.”

“Rude,” McCree sighs, still hunched over as he shuffles out back into the sunny room. He squints at the window, the lack of window blinds, and finds a clear space on the wooden floor to squat, digging through his travel bag. Moments later, his revolver appears, and the sound of it taken gently taken apart and oiled takes place.

Peace is temporary, paved with waves of Vitamin D forcing its way through the window. Hanzo grapples with his notebook again, sketching out the figure of a person brandishing their sword, legs a sweeping motion. Their arm is too long.

Sweat beads at his nose, the top of his mouth. Hanzo sighs, wiping at his face with the back of his hand, grimacing at the feeling of wet skin against wet skin. His hands feel oversized, inflated with water, the air as heavy indoors as out. He wonders if opening the window would help any; the fan in his room is meant to circulate the air, though it certainly doesn’t seem to do much.

Actually, he hasn’t been hearing the noise at all.

“McCree! くそ! Plug the fan back in!” The other agent startles, gaping at Hanzo for a solid two seconds before making an aborted movement of his arm to slap the fan. It shakes under his hand, old and weak after years of usage, and Hanzo groans, stomping his way over.

He’s expecting Genji to rush into the room, alarmed by him cursing, but no footsteps come.

“What’s wrong?” McCree prompts, scooting back to give Hanzo access to the dusty thing. He sighs, eying the yellowing edges of the fan. Maybe it’s time to buy a new one.

“It’s too hot for this. And the fan is going to die.” The plug had frayed two years ago, and he had taped it back. Then it had frayed again, more tape, and again, and now the end of the plug is coated in five centimeters of blue circuit tape. Hanzo grapples with it, forcing it into the open mouth of the outlet.

The plug goes in but the fan light stays unlit.

“Kuso,” McCree echoes. Hanzo gives him a withering glare before nodding, mouthing the word himself.

“Genji? Otouto? Suzume?” Hanzo calls. No response. With a sigh, he manages to bring himself to a stand, ignoring the sticky noise of his shorts crunching between his legs. Cheap pants don’t last long.

The rest of the apartment is as sticky warm as his room. Hanzo makes slow steps, face twitching uncomfortably at the defeated squish of his slippers on the hard wood. The bathroom is empty, as is the kitchen, and the bedroom. He’s out of rooms to check.

“Genji is out, remember?”

“What?” McCree gives him an unimpressed eyebrow raise before breaking into a relaxed smile, ambering over to the single couch near the kitchen. The pink throw Hanzo had stolen from the Shimada, one embroidered with snakes and phoenixes, is sloppily thrown to the side, clearly deemed too warm for the weather.

“I said, Genji is out, remember? He said he was leaving to play with Hana at the arcade, and also that they’re buying a new fan, because Winston knocked it over yesterday.” McCree recounts the incidents with ticks off his fingers, smugly glancing over when Hanzo openly gapes at him.

“You said you didn’t know Japanese!” He accuses, marching over to the couch to glare McCree into submission. The other agent shrugs.

“I said I didn’t know much, honey.” Hanzo feels his face flare, the urge to kick McCree onto the floor overwhelming.

It’s the monsoon’s fault.

Overwatch was meant to leave, mission over, agents done with the humidity weighing down their shoulders and soaked through their shirts. It was barely a twenty-minute flight before the monsoon hit, planes were grounded, and Agents Tracer and Winston deemed conditions too dangerous for flight. It was not so bad a situation until Genji noted that he ought not to be in rain for too long, worry over rust appearing, and Hanzo had no choice. With a shaky goodbye to the last of his privacy, he had volunteered his remaining Hanamura safehouse.

Now, alone only with the other agent in a sweltering apartment, he has regrets.

“You should have stayed in a hotel with the rest of the team,” he points out. McCree hums, fingers busy balancing the pieces of his gun.

“Too swanky for me. And I wouldn’t turn down my dearest friend’s request, now would I?” The words would be more grating on the battlefield—here, with sweat soaking the back of their shirts, Hanzo can muster up at most a half shrug. His anger rises and fizzles out too fast in this weather.

The television opens to a dating show and Hanzo grimaces even as McCree’s eyes flicker to watch. Twenty girls make fools of themselves over the “lucky man” on stage, flirting shamelessly with him just seconds after introducing themselves. It is disgusting and immoral behavior, something troubling familiar to Genji’s old crowd, and Hanzo wills it away.

Still, it’s easier to focus on the ramblings of a stranger than the insistent heat weighing down his body. McCree makes room in the edge of the couch, allowing Hanzo to lean in while carefully maneuvering his back as to not get the coach sweatier than it already is.

It would be too much to hope that Genji would return before dusk, with his history in arcades. Hanzo is torn on wondering whether he would prefer Genji grown, mature enough to know to leave early, or still carrying his childish adoration for all things video games. In truth, Hanzo knows he has little say in either case, and would likely end up quite fond of Genji’s behavior despite the inevitable scolding he should prepare.

The smell of oil is strengthened by the heat, and Hanzo grimaces as McCree works. The other agent begins to hum under his breath, some country tune that Hanzo doesn’t recognize, fingers working the underside of his revolver. There is little to do in this apartment, safehome, without alcohol and training to keep him at bay. At most, all he can do is watch the sun light up half of McCree’s face, brows loose in the ease of a task he has done times before.

“It’s hot,” McCree notes, wiping an oil streak on his cheek as he rubs the beading sweat on his nose. Hanzo watches the two black lines, eyes narrowing. It is not hard to imagine the stains he could easily inflict on the rest of the house’s equipment.

“Watch yourself.” It’s not a warning so much as a murmur under the beating sun. The women on stage break out into song, each singing a few lines from a vintage selection to showcase their “cultured” knowledge. It’s hard not to pinch his lips into a frown at the shameless attempt to center the camera below the performing faces.

Hanzo finds his eyes on McCree’s fingers instead.

“Pretty, right?” McCree whistles, his voice oddly quiet. Perhaps it’s the pressure from the heat keeping it down; either way, Hanzo finds himself appreciative of the whisper. “Ol’ Peacekeeper is a beauty among beauties, but you could find yourself a pretty good darling too. If you learned how to use them, that is.”

“I know how to use them,” Hanzo snipes back, though the heat in his voice is gone, drowned out as he sweats further onto the sofa. He should buy Genji a new one, something to match his new neon décor, though fond memories of Genji scolding him about his complete lack of design sense quirks a smile. Maybe he would be better off asking Hana for advice. “They’re rather useless, in my opinion.”

“I see, honey.” The nickname, again. Hanzo knows his brows knit together in perplexed irritation once more as McCree laughs. His fingers wipe themselves on a spotted handkerchief, leaving behind more oily streaks, though the ink persists as he swipes at another bead of sweat along his neck, leaving behind three black marks. There’s a moment pause, slow, a flicker of that calculated expression Hanzo only sees from McCree on missions or prank wars with Fareeha, before his eyes drag themselves up to meet Hanzo’s glare. “I’m done.”  
“And?” McCree’s lips twist upwards in amusement. His skin scrunches when he does so, and it makes the black stains across his cheek obnoxious.

“You’re still looking.” The oil is still there. “See something you like?”

“No,” Hanzo hisses, square, that much easier to boil under this heat. What little fight he has left is riled up much too easily, and he exhales long and slow in an attempt to temper it.

“Are you sure?”

It’s the heat. It’s the summer’s damning heat wave, and the Hellish storm of sweat that runs down McCree’s skin. It’s the broken fan, and the dull emptiness of the room, and the knowledge that Genji and Hana aren’t scheduled to make it back anytime soon.

It’s the oil that McCree has on his cheek, smearing against Hanzo’s own when their lips meet.

It’s not a loving kiss. There’s no roses, nor lilies, and no drifting cherry blossoms behind Hanzo and the unlucky maiden bond to a future contract for the sake of her family. There’s only sweat, and the beginnings of a groan when Hanzo nips into McCree’s lips, and the sound of the leather couch folding under their weight, rocking forward. The kiss ends as abruptly as it started, with Hanzo shoving McCree to his feet as he collapses back against the slick leather, a hand coming up to rub at the sticky oil on his cheek.

“No,” Hanzo growls. McCree stands there still, looking dumb, until Hanzo drags a hand down his face. “Go clean yourself up, there’s oil all over you.”

McCree raises his blackened hands with a sheepish grin, finally removing himself from the couch. Hanzo waits until the bathroom door closes behind him, the sound of running water in the background, to exhale.

His face is warm. His palms sweaty. There’s a rattling thrumming beneath his rib cage, ready to burst.

A fan isn’t going to help Hanzo now.

“くそ.”

Summer is Hell in Hanamura.

**Author's Note:**

> An old work I finished up as warmup for a commission! More Overwatch in the year 2020? More likely than you think
> 
> If you enjoyed reading my fics, I'm running a giveaway on my twitter [ @Shidreamin ](https://twitter.com/shidreamin/)! ♥ You'll get to see some art pieces I've done recently, mostly for FE, and also some of zine previews!


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